


Just Because Children Shouldn’t Play with Fire Doesn’t Mean Demons Should

by BluTed



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Eventual Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, So zira's gotta coax it out of him hshs, This is just crowley not wanting to admit his feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 14:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19201045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluTed/pseuds/BluTed
Summary: Crowley had a bad dream. Aziraphale wants to know why.





	Just Because Children Shouldn’t Play with Fire Doesn’t Mean Demons Should

**Author's Note:**

> This was tricky to write since I came from the TV series and not the book. I had to go back and forth both medias, but ultimately my Crowley and Aziraphale were inspired by Michael Sheen and David Tennant's brilliant acting. A dear friend helped edit this piece since tenses are the bane of my existence. Kudos to her!

All his life, he never thought too much about it. Fire is a double-edged sword for humans, Crowley has seen since the beginning of Adam and Eve until the twentieth century how humans gradually make use of it. How it began as a sort of plague they try to control until they eventually did. Only that it went horribly wrong sooner than Crowley expected it to. Humans are creative that way. And Crowley had no complaints for that, no. Instead he felt utterly pleased that they managed to finish half of his work for him. But for demons such as himself, it’s nothing more than thin air, really. Right now, however, he is sure this would finally be the death of him.

Inhaling smoke shouldn’t be anything to him. It certainly is a health hazard for humans, but not for him. So why would this one be any different? Apparently, it just is. Because currently, tears are streaming down his cheeks and he’s coughing more than he did in six thousand years.

He had just spent at least a few hours running around like a blind monkey in the bookshop. The burning bookshop. He doesn’t have time to figure out why the mere fire smoke was able to make his eyes water, or why the bookshop became a never-ending shithole of a maze because Aziraphale is _not there_. If the bloody man is not even in his own shop, where else could he be? Demons are not exactly known for their positivity and hopefulness, but Crowley would rather think about something else than the possibility of Aziraphale getting badly injured.

But he’s an angel. Why did Crowley think he could ever get injured by fire that’s other than hellfire?

The bookshelves surrounding Crowley seemed to be mocking him. They stayed still in their place even as Crowley ran and ran and ran. No matter if he went left, right, or up the bloody ceiling, those shelves were still there everywhere he went. Standing tall and looking oddly luminous, it was engulfed in flames. Crowley doesn’t even want to think about whether any of those shelves are one and the same. Things haven’t been this weird since the fourteenth century. Of course, bookshelves aren’t the only things burning. Around him, all of Aziraphale’s bizarre and outdated trinkets are also burning, including the books– which if Crowley remembered correctly, he had saved from those nasty Nazi spies.

A hoarse cry grew louder the moment he saw Aziraphale’s study being completely absent of the angel’s presence. It took Crowley a second to realize that the cry was his, he was crying out for Aziraphale like a toddler who lost his parents. Fitting, since he’d just lost his best friend.

A crack above smothers him with something that bores the weight of a grand fucking piano. Maybe with Mozart still playing on it. The next thing Crowley knows, he’s lying on the ground with a chunk of the ceiling on his back. Paralyzed like an idiot. The taste of blood he hasn’t known in years sickening his mouth and his sight was steadily getting hazy. His cry, though, instead grew louder and uglier. It was hurting his windpipes. It was the only noise filling the bookshop and Crowley hated it. This was funny, considering he’s been called a narcissist plenty of times throughout six thousand years, yet he actually hates his own voice–

“CROWLEY!”

A face was staring back at him. The one he’d been dying to see. Crowley was awake now, bathed in cold sweat from head to toe.

“Christ, Crowley, what’s gotten into you? Are you alright? That was a redundant question, you’re obviously not alright–” Aziraphale was out of his own bed, which was right next to Crowley’s, and he looked crummy. The product he uses on his hair everyday kept it nice and smooth, but now it’s sticking out wildly into various directions. Quite a sight to see for someone who had just woken up and still recollecting bits of his consciousness. But most importantly, the look on Aziraphale’s eyes was something Crowley could not ignore. Last he saw those wrinkles on his forehead, the world was coming to an end.

Crowley raises a hand in an effort to shush him. “You look like someone threw one of your books into the Nile. I’m fine, Aziraphale. Why don’t you go back to sleep?” Crowley says, pulling a pillow over his head. No footsteps were heard moving away from his bed. Crowley puts the pillow away. Aziraphale is still frowning, candleholder in his hand like a statue ornament. “Oh, look. Isn’t that your bed over there, looking very empty and unused?”

“I won’t go until you tell me what’s been bugging you. You’re restless, Crowley, and I want to know what caused it so.”

“It was the sandwiches; I prefer bacon over pickles. Let me sleep. That candle is way too bright, you don’t actually need it, and you can miracle light out of nothing.”

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed. “But last time you told me those pickles were fantastic!”

“I lied. Demons lie and cheat every time. That’s textbook, shouldn’t be anything new for you.”

“Then why don’t we give it a new start, Crowley? We’ve already established that this whole ‘I’m the good guy and you’re the bad one’ hogwash to be complete rubbish anyway. What’s going on?”

Crowley can only stare at Aziraphale now. All of a sudden, he feels the need for his glasses. Or anything, really, as long as it conceals his eyes. Aziraphale’s gaze was so strong it was stripping Crowley bare to his bones. He was vulnerable. Very vulnerable. At that moment he immediately learned that vulnerability is a very uncomfortable feeling. Especially when you’re not used to putting yourself in that state. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was as open as a book since day one. He has nothing to lose. Unlike Crowley.

“It’s been a long day, what with stopping Armageddon and all. Let’s even take the whole century off, treat ourselves. I did it once in between the 1800s and 1900s. Suffice to say, it was absolutely spectacular. Woke up feeling like a new person. Or a not-person, perhaps, is the more suitable term.”

Aziraphale was bewildered. He places the candle holder on the small table next to Crowley’s bed. “My dear, would you stop this nonsense? You were shouting my name in your sleep for God’s sake!”

Aziraphale wasn’t yelling, but he was raising his voice. Something he would do whenever something goes wrong with Crowley. Only with Crowley. “Nonsense? Tell me, angel; what sort of answer do you expect from me? Because if you’re asking me to abide to your foolish request of having a heart-to-heart chat with you, you’re failing!”

“I wasn’t asking you to abide to any requests, Crowley!” Aziraphale rise from the bed, it was made clear that he was both frustrated and furious. “I never know what it is you’re thinking about. You always manage to be twelve steps ahead of me. You’re moving at this different pace that I can’t catch up to!”

Who was to say that Crowley wasn't frustrated and furious too? “So you’re suggesting I slow down? Oh, angel, this Bentley’s not built for that–”

“I’m suggesting you open up more.”

Now it’s Crowley’s turn to get off the bed. It was beginning to feel confining, the covers. “You’ve known me for centuries, what more is there to open up about?”

“Exactly! We’ve been around each other for a very long time, so what are you being anxious for? That I’ll ridicule you for it? You know that’s beyond me, dear. I would never do such a thing!”

“You ridiculed the crêpes and brioches they had in 1793.”

“Yes, but have I ever ridiculed you?” Crowley’s lips became a straight line as he kept his eyes on Aziraphale’s. “You’ve said it before. We’re friends. Friends don’t do this… this… this stuff! Not talking!”

“We’ve been doing plenty of that! In case you forgot, angel, we’ve been talking for the past SIX millennia despite the Arrangement of our respective head officers!”

“What are you so afraid of, Crowley–”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!” Crowley shouts at last. Aziraphale went wide-eyed, frozen in his place. Despite being out of breath from the excessive amount of rage, Crowley continues, “Six thousand years and I have not befriended a single soul other than you. It’s always been you, since the very first day. Back then, when your bookshop was burning, I thought I’d lost you. I thought, well. That’s dandy, isn’t it? That my friend, my only friend, has died! That someone had murdered my best friend and I wasn’t even there to be with him when it happened! I could have prevented it, had I been there! You were– Oh, forget it. I’m not in the mood to sleep anymore.”

Crowley miracles his glasses to his hand. That was enough from him tonight. “If you need me I’ll be outside, counting the stars or doing something else that humans do when they’re feeling like a big bag of bollocks.”

On the balcony, there was an ashtray. It was Crowley’s favorite place to smoke. Aziraphale hates the smell of tobacco so Crowley tries to keep it away from him as much as he can. And the view from up there was rather decent. Which is why this had been Crowley’s number one pick for an apartment. Getting the cigarettes wasn’t, though. People smoke less here than they do in other parts of the world.

“We both are tired, aren’t we? We have been, for a very long time.” Aziraphale said, his voice soft and silky. Crowley shuts his eyes, exhaling a whiff of smoke. When he opened them, Aziraphale was already leaning on the handrails beside him. “All these centuries, yet only now we can say we’re friends without batting an eye.”

“Oh, great, so it’s not one-sided anymore from my part. We can finally move on to braiding each other’s hair, then.”

“I _am_ glad that you could finally tell me.”

Crowley said nothing, he just kept his eyes trained on Aziraphale and his crummy hair. And his smile and the wrinkles around his eyes. ”May I interest you to a cup of tea? Or perhaps, alcohol?” he offered.

Crowley was staring too long. He averts his gaze to London’s busy street. “Why are you always so prim and proper with your words.”

“If you dislike that about me, you can always just kick me out. Yet, I’m still here.” Aziraphale returns back into the apartment, probably heading to the kitchen to prepare the chamomile and Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Crowley never understood why couldn’t he just miracle it. It’s faster, and it spares him of the mundane work.

“How did I ever think you were a paragon of virtue?”

“Because you like me too much.”

Crowley chokes on his cigar. Aziraphale’s voice was loud and clear from where he was. Crowley lets out a sharp cackle and made sure it could be heard from the kitchen. It earned him a chuckle.

“Go easy on me, Rose,” he mumbles, seemingly to no one.

**Author's Note:**

> A headcanon of mine, since in the book it was mentioned Crowley watch Golden Girls, is he would reference it often. Not to be mistaken as a Doctor Who reference.


End file.
